The dark-haired Soldier, and his Doctor
by PeterJack05
Summary: John was kidnapped by Moriarty and what his life's hanging on a thread. Who will save him? What happened to his savior? PS: I wrote this before I saw series three after I watched TRF. So, if there's any OOC moments or whatsoever, please look at it favorably. Also, please give reviews, the more the merrier. ;)
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I do not own any of the characters or the show; BBC Sherlock as they belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and recreated by Steven Moffat and Mark Gattis.

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"Let him go." Sherlock slowly walks out from the shadows; his dark curly hair has been reduced to extremely short tufts of ginger dusting his head. A baggy black sweater with the hood resting at the nape of his shoulder blades, with a pair of worn denim jeans hangs off his lanky frame as a pair of dirty converses scraps the floor. He points the revolver at the man holding John Watson at gunpoint, as his eyes slowly scans over the unconscious soldier's body; an angry bruise on his left cheek, a series of untreated gun wounds on left shoulder where the scar that caused him to be invalidated from the military was located, as well as on his right thigh. Dried blood was crusted on his arms and chest shows where he has been butchered by at least a large piece of glass or a butcher's knife. The sleeves of the used-to-be white collared shirt was rolled up to his elbows to show the four fiery red welts on his writs as bare feet was covered with burn marks and severe cuts. Sherlock's hand trembles with anger as he turns his gaze to the man behind John, his usually soft silvery-green eyes hardened to the molten silver as he glared at the man in an expensive four piece suit and neatly slicked back hair that is smiling that rivals to the Cheshire cat.

"Lovely job I've done to him, haven't I?" he whispers, his eyes glinting with evil glee and mischief.

"Let him go, Moriarty." Sherlock growls, he steps closer.

"Oh no, no. I wanted to talk to you Sherlock, that's why I've kidnapped your little pet." The smile instantly dropped to a pout.

"Then let him go and I will talk." Sherlock stalked slowly and carefully as a predator would stalk its prey.

"Aw. Its heart wrenching to see how far you'll go for you pretty little pet." Moriarty grinned happily as with one flick of his finger, he disengaged the safety device on the revolver, the click echoes throughout the warehouse, "Well, he won't be so pretty when I blow his brains out."

"If you pull the trigger, I will kill you." Sherlock growls.

"I faked my death once, who says that I wouldn't do it again?" He laughed as he pressed the gun firmly against the temple of the soldier.

"You've got no one to save you if you do fake your death because I've destroyed every single strand of your web." Sherlock spoke quickly, fear and desperation flashed in his voice and eyes before he managed to control the tornado of inner emotions.

"Well then. I'll just kill myself." the dark haired man grinned even wider.

"Then please don't drag John down with you." Sherlock spat sarcastically.

"Ha. You're so funny Sherlock. I just want to talk to you."

"Do you still want to threaten me?" confusion and then downing lightened in Sherlock's mind.

"I've got another web in the making Sherlock. Don't interfere. If you do, I'll send someone to kill you and your beautiful pet." Moriarty's voice came out in a dark toned whisper as he pursed his lips together and widened his eyes.

"Mycroft will send protection."

"Ah! But those protections are brought and I've got dough." Moriarty smiled pleasantly as he paused, "Think it through Sherlock dear because it would really break my heart if I have to kill you and your pet when I want you two to join me."

A thick silence covered the room, then Sherlock opened his mouth; "I'll not interfere in your work. You have my word."

"And to join me?" Moriarty sounded hopeful.

"I am satisfied with the amount of enemies I have now." the dark haired man's face instantly fell into a pout as he looked at the ground whilst shrugging his shoulders and lowered his hand.

"you really don't want to join?" his voice came out barely a whisper.

"Yes."

"Then...you leave me with no choice."

A sharp bang and intense pain attacked Sherlock's right shoulder as he dropped the handgun as he shrieked in agony and astonishment.

"This is for solving all the riddles."

Another gunshot rang through the room as Sherlock arched his back as he fell to his knees, clutching his thigh.

"This is for the woman."

A third gunshot echoes as Sherlock cries whilst clutching his side as he rests his weight on his left elbow.

"This is the final debt." and with a hardened gaze, the tall, darkhaired man turned around and swiftly disappeared into the shadows. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Sherlock forced himself to sit up and pluck a black Nokia phone from the back pocket of his jeans and slowly pressed the digits 999 before it slipped from his hands and landed in front of him.

"Hello 9-9-9, what's your emergency?" a pleasant young woman's voice answered back.


	2. Chapter 2

John groaned as he slowly opened his eyes. Pain assaulted his body as he groaned louder and squeezed his eyes shut.

"Here, have some water." The soldier opened his mouth as a cold surface was pressed against his lips and refreshing cold liquid steadily flowed down his throat with each gulp and when the cup was empty, the object retreated from his lips and a calloused hand gently stroke his chin, picking up any stray water drops on the ends of his beard.

"I'm so sorry, John." A familiar baritone voice whispered, "If I knew he was going to do this… I would've never gotten myself involved in this the first place…" Hope that Sherlock was alive and scared that he might be going mad flared in his heart as he forced his eyes to open. There sitting next to him was a severely injured Sherlock Holmes wearing the patient's uniform. He looked even thinner than when he first met him at Bart's Lab and through the deep round neckline, dressings on his shoulder was visible. The fact that the contours of his face, collar bone and hands were more pronounced caught the doctor's eye than the fact that the consulting detective cut and dyed his hair to a scandalling shade of red with highlights of gold and black, flashing in the light.

"Are you… are you really…?" His throat too sore to make any coherent sounds and the dread that this might all be a dream fills his heart, but as it was if the clever man knew what he was saying.

"Yes John." Sherlock stood up, a look of pain passed through his features briefly before it hid behind a mask of tender caring, leaned down and using his left hand to rest his weight on the bed, he grimaced once more as he bent down and gently pressed his lips against John's. The texture of the now-ginger haired man was roughened and scratchy as his breathe tasted like cigarettes and coffee and tears formed as the doctor closed his eyes, the raw taste of his best friend, lover and flatmate, filled his senses as his heart soared and he felt as if he really did return home. Sherlock pulled back and gazed lovingly at the older man as he slightly grimaced while he lifted a hand to cut the soldier's cheek and whispered; "I'm home." As quickly as the relief, happiness and sense of triumph appeared, it diminished and in its place, intense rage and bitter betrayal bubbled up like a bonfire and without thinking, he raised a fist and it collided at the edge of the sharp cheekbones and an audible CRACK was heard as Sherlock yelped while he fell backwards, off the bed and onto his side, the injured side, on the floor.

"You bastard!" John yelled, "You bloody arsehole! You could've called, text, emailed, blogged or whatever way of contacting that's available to mankind to let me know you're alive!" John covered his eyes with his right hand as his left shoulder throbbed with pain, "You're smart and you've got a massive intellect so coming up with a plan to fake your death, it's not that hard." Sherlock bit his lip to stop himself from screaming against the waves upon waves of intense agony and torment ion his body is replying to the impact, "but to not come up with a way to contact me? I swear you'd even know how animals communicate each other! You could've used that if human ways of communication doesn't work or seems too dangerous." John removed his hand and sat himself up as he turned to glare at the man, "Are you even listening to_." He froze. "Sherlock?" The trembling body doesn't reply. "Sherlock!" He yelled as the door opened and Lestrade walked into the room. "Greg! Sherlock!" The pepper haired man looked at John once and flicked his head towards the ginger haired man and immediately went down to his knees and gently gathered Sherlock into his arms. Sweat flowed down his ashen face as little droplets of blood dripped down his chin. An angry black bruise was rapidly forming on his cheek.

"Are you alright Sherlock?" He asked gently. The thin man just nodded his head ever so slightly. "Do you need the medication?" A slight nod was all it took for the detective to dig into his coat pocket and appear with a dark glass bottle with a screwed on black lid and it took only a few seconds to unscrew it, drop out two pills and shove them in the tall man's mouth and he swallowed them dry. Colour started to return to his face, as the trembling started to lessen little by little until it completely ceased and the consulting detective sighed in relief.

"Greg, what's going on?" John asked attentively, his attentive eyes never leaving the ginger's face and then the grimaces on Sherlock's face flashed in his mind's eye and he groaned as he buries his face in the palm of his hands, "How severe is the injury on Sherlock's right shoulder, left leg and side?"

"It's a gun wound."

"What?"

"Lestrade!" Sherlock bellowed. The thin man looked weak and on the verge of dying before the grey-haired man even walked into the room, but now he looked stronger and even scarier than before. The detective didn't blink an eye or wince even slightly as he scooped Sherlock into his arms and stood up while carrying him bridal style.

"Look at you. You're even lighter than my little girl, Jasmine!" John just froze as he watched Lestrade walk towards the doorway, and stopped. He turned around and smiled sadly at the doctor.

"Sherlock's going to be with Mycroft for a couple of months, John." He spoke loudly and hesitantly, "He just wants to know what he's been doing." He turned away and walked through the open doorway.

"Wait! Lestrade!" the detective stopped, "Will I be able to see him again?" the middle-aged man turned around and smiled.

"Mycroft just wants to catch up with him." And with that remark, Lestrade walked out of the doorway with Sherlock. It was reported later that night, that a man called Sebastian Moran raided the Homes Mansion and when the police arrived, they discovered that the Detective Inspector Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes was severely injured to the point that they needed immediate surgery and the younger Holmes brother was nowhere to be found on the grounds. They never found the body or heard anything for Sebastian Moran.

John started his physiotherapy for his shoulder and legs and managed to safely discharge from the hospital a month later with a limp. He quitted his job at the local GP practice and after he sold all his belongings and gave all of Sherlock's belongings to Mycroft, he moved in with Harry and slowly, but surely began to drink all his problems and pains away.

It was like this that the doctor's detective returned from the dead.


	3. Chapter 3

Calloused fingers grasp around a small glass cup filled with light yellow liquid. John was slouching as one hand was on the table to rest his weight on and the other rested on his leg as the crane was leaning against the leg of the table. The doctor lifted the glass and drew his head back to press the cup to his lips and pour the liquid down his throat. Long thin fingers rushed out, slapped the cup towards the wall and it smashed with a loud CRACK.

"Geez… Who is it…?" John slurred. He turned to the side and looked up towards the person that interrupted him. He instantly felt sober and his eyes widened in surprise for a moment and then, he just chuckled. He chuckled as he lifted his hand from the table and placed his elbow on the wooden surface and rested his forehand on his fingertips. Shining tears formed at the sides of his eyes as he grimaced in forlorn sadness and grief. "Why… why can't I just… you're dead… you're not alive… I'm hallucinating."

"John."

"Stop it! Shut up!" the doctor covered his ears with the palm of his hands, "even the sound of your voice sound so accurately similar…"

"John!" a pair of pale hands gripped the older man's shoulder. It was strong, but gentle enough not to hurt the tender flesh that is yet to heal on the soldier's shoulders. The intruder slowly, but firmly turned John around to face him and slid a hand from his left shoulder, up to his neck and under the chin and gently pushed it up. John closed his eyes tightly.

"John, look at Me." the baritone voice coaxed gently, "John, I'm not a hallucination. I'm here. I'm really here." The doctor slowly opened his eyes, dread that he might be disappointed and hope that Sherlock is really there, right there in front of him in the flesh, fills up his heart as he turns his eyes towards the man.

Tears flowed down more freely as he smiled at a certain consulting detective in front of him. His cheekbones were more pronounced than when he last saw him as his tufts of ginger grew a few more inches as the circles beneath the silver-green eyes became a stark contrast against his pale ashen complexion. He looked as if he had been to hell and back over three times and despite the fact that he looked as if he would soon drop dead, the doctor did mind those sickly features but he pushed them to the back of his mind as he focused on the fact that Sherlock Holmes, the man he loved and prayed to return, was standing right in front of him.

"Let's go home." the lanky man smiled as he placed a hand on his and gripped it tightly as he turned around and dragged him out of the bar and onto the street.

"Taxi!" a vehicle immediately stopped in front of the two people. Sherlock opened the door and John slid onto the leather seats before Sherlock mimicked the actions. He felt a gentle hand press against his temple and slowly pushing his head towards the tall man and he eventually rested his head on the silver-eyed man. The hand slid down from the temple and down the neck, towards the shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. The soldier purred in satisfaction as he leaned even closer to Sherlock, comforting himself with the warmth that radiate from Sherlock.

"This better not be a dream…" He whispered as he slowly drifted off to sleep.

"It's not, John." That was the last thing he heard before he fell unconsciously into a deep sleep.

The next morning

John groaned as he clutched his forehead. He loved the relief that the drug gave him, but that doesn't mean that he revels in the glory of a hangover.

"Here, drink this." The doctor instantly opened his eyes and there, standing in the sunlight wearing his pyjamas, was Sherlock Holmes holding out a mug with steam gently floating out of it.

"S-Sherlock?" his bottom lip trembled as his voice sounded scratchy and deep with the overwhelming grief and despair that has been piled up in the attic of his heart for the past four years as he slowly pushed himself up and leaned against the bedhead.

"Drink this first John. I'll answer all of your questions after you've finished that drink." with a trembling hand, he reached out and clasped the steaming ceramic and gently placed it against his lip as he took little sips in order to not burn his mouth. The sweet liquid poured down his throat and soothed not only the scratchy pain at the back of his throat, but it also calmed the trembles that radiated from his guts.

"What is this?"

"Honey tea." the baritone answered as he leaned down and sat on the bed, beside the army doctor. He slowly lifted his hand and very carefully, as he stared at the older man's eyes, he enveloped the sunken cheek in the palm of his hand. The doctor closed his eyes as he turned his head around and gently pressed his lips against Sherlock's wrist as he leaned into the solid warmth radiating from the hand.

"You're back… you're really back…." he murmured as hot tears ran down his cheeks.

"It's finished John. Everything is okay now. Moriarty or anyone from his organisation wouldn't even dare to meddle with us ever again." the doctor opened his eyes wide in surprise and in horror.

"Was that what you were doing for the past four years?" He whispered, "You… knowing your personality you would've not ate a single thing and survived on nutrition medication and multi vitamins as well as on coffee and nicotine. You would not have a single person looking after you or helping you on your mad quest after a madman!" John eventually yelled as he raised his arm to hit Sherlock on the face, he froze in mid-air and eventually lowered his arm to rake his fingers through his hair.

Sherlock lowered his eyes and pushed himself off the bed, grabbed his coat and scarf that was hanging on the door nail at the back of the bedroom door as he turned to leave.

"Lestrade has a murder case for us." He spoke loud and clear, "Would you like to come?" John's head snapped upwards and his glare softened to an angry spark.

"On one condition, you are to include me in all the danger." He breathed. He slowly pushed back the covers and stood in front of Sherlock. "God knows what kind of trouble you get in without me." He squared his shoulders and painfully shoved it on Sherlock's arm as he pushed past, opened the door and stormed off.

"Well... At least he didn't hit me…." Sherlock smiled as his hand absently rose to slowly massage the sore area.


	4. Chapter 4

It was only after a month of built up tension and hostility between the two men that it was only a matter of time before one of them would explode like a time bomb. This was because John still hadn't forgiven Sherlock for disappearing on him and Sherlock has purposely ignored him because he couldn't be bothered to apologize. He also thought that John would pass through this phase and their relationship would go back to being normal. However the two men wouldn't even meet, speak or seek each other's presence if it was any other reason than case studies. The pent up emotions between them were to the point that it was visible and tiring for the people around them such as the poor Mrs Hudson or Lestrade. Even Anderson or Donovan wouldn't even dare to talk to them in fear that they would receive the backlash of the explosion. '

Like all balloons would pop if they were given too much air, John exploded enthusiastically to creating an artwork of destruction of the serial killer he and Sherlock was chasing for three days. He nearly broke or bruised all the bones in the man's body as he proceeded to give him a black eye and a split lip with bruised cheeks. When Scotland Yard has arrived, they were shocked to beyond belief when they saw Sherlock sitting on the floor with his long legs stretched out to pillow the head of a certain army doctor as the murderer lay battered and bleeding on the concrete floor with multiple cracks alongside the walls as if someone had hit them with the iron crowbar that lay; bent and dented beyond recognition, a few feet away from the detective.

"Just for once," Lestrade yelled in exasperation, "Can't you two behave like grownups?" He raked his hand through his hair hurriedly as he sent a text towards a certain official in the British Government.

An Ambulance came a few seconds later and immediately loaded the unconscious criminal to the nearest hospital. A doctor stayed behind to inspect Sherlock's wound that none of Scotland Yard had noticed. The doctor had kind blue eyes as he very carefully lifted the shirt from being tucked into his pants and unbuttoned five buttons before opening it to reveal a profusely bleeding stab wound that still has the knife in it. The doctor slowly gripped the handle of the blade very tightly and without warning, he quickly slid it out. The consulting detective hissed in pain as he arched his back before he slumped back against the brick wall. The doctor poured alcohol onto the wound before bandaging it up and moved onto John.

"Three broken fingers, two burst blisters and numerous cuts all on both hands." He diagnosed before he dabbed dipped a cotton ball in a bottle of alcohol and gently dabbed it against the wounds. John didn't even stir through the whole procedure as he just curled more and more into a little ball on his side, his face burying into Sherlock's lap.

"There, that's done." the doctor declared, "You two just need to visit the hospital next week to get your bandages changed." He stood up and turned to leave when he turned to Sherlock and smiled.

"You'll just need to make sure that water doesn't get into any of your wounds while it's healing…. And you might need want John to check out your scars when he wakes up…" silvery green eyes snapped up to glare at him, "Trust me, it's best to treat them before you get an infection later on."

And with that remark, he left Sherlock to his own devices.

Later back in Baker Street,

"Show me those scars." John muttered as he glared venously towards Sherlock, whom is slowly backing towards the sofa. "Show me those scars now, before I force you to."

"What if I refuse to?" Sherlock snapped, "I could just walk away."

"As if I would let you."

"Since when have you displayed that much affection for me ever since I got back?!"

"Well then, what do you expect me to DO?!" John yelled. His body shook as sobs racked through his body. "You just came back from the dead… of course it'll get some bloody time to get used to it!"

Sherlock stood, rooted to the floor as he saw tears running down his face and shining through his eyes was pure grief and exhaustion that he never saw. He just stood there, not knowing what to do as John glared at him with tear stricken eyes until he averts his eyes from the scene. He had made up his mind. If this man was willing to cry and wait for him despite all that he has done, he is worthy enough to share the dark years.

He licked his lips as he walked towards John and gently grasped his fingers around his wrist as he pulls him behind while walking towards his bedroom. He opens the door and pulls John in with him. He gave John a soft push onto his shoulders so that he is sitting on the black silky sheets. Feeling scared, he lifted his trembling fingers and slowly unbuttoned the dark pebbles one by one. John's eyes widened in surprise at the intimate gesture the detective was initiating however, the look of surprise and awe on his face slowly turned to anger as each inch of his pale skin revealed angry lines cris-crossed across his upper body. The shirt fell with a quiet thump on the floor

His eyes immediately darted towards the large spidery star on his right shoulder and another on his left side and scanned the thickness of the lines on his arms, torso and neck. He deduced from the slash pattern and the thickness that they were made from a wide range of interrogational tools such as whips with barbed ends, various sharpness of knives and gunshots. Sherlock turned his face towards the left, so that his messy hair covered his face, however it showed an angry burnt make in the shape of an M with the ends twirling around in circles to meet in the centre and John would recognise that mark anywhere. It was the mark on the murdered prostitutes that had a records of interacting with Moriarty, and therefore, it was a mark of his playthings and John knew this, because after Sherlock had died, he went on a psychometric chase after Moriarty and it was the location of where the marks kept on appearing that led him towards the criminal mastermind in order to avenge his lover.

"How long… did you have… that mark?" His voice trembled with new found malice towards the criminal. Sherlock shivered in fear and shame as he turned he whispered so quietly that John would've missed it if it wasn't as silent as it was.

"F...Four...years…"

The short man just stared at him for at least ten seconds, but those seconds felt like years. He jumped to his feet onto the floor and strode towards the tall lean man. Sherlock closed his eyes tightly, expecting the war veteran to walk past him and out of the door. Instead, he felt strong arms wrap around to the small of his back as the smaller man buried his face onto the nape of his neck.

"I'm so… sorry. Sherlock…" He whispered onto the skin. Sherlock immediately relaxed as he wrapped his arms around the shorter man and held him tight.

"Thank you, John." He kissed him softly on the side of his forehead.

"John pulled away and smiled at him. "Welcome back. Took you long enough, Sherlock."


End file.
